Poetry — December 8, 2011 13:15 — 1 Comment

The Call – Jed Myers

I walked a broken-headed man
toward a corner where
he thought he roomed. Brick

dark with rain—what city
was this? Spring
said little—one brave blood

geranium shivered in its urn
by a black wire weave,
his door. I left him there—

sure he’d get the code, work
the lift or take the stair,
find his floor, the key…

I walked off in drizzle, had to
make that call, never
mind the broken things in me.


Jed Myers lives, writes, and makes music in Seattle. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Nimrod International Journal, Golden Handcuffs Review, Atlanta Review, Quiddity, the Journal of the American Medical Association, the Rose Alley Press anthology Many Trails to the Summit, and elsewhere. He is a psychiatrist with a therapy practice and teaches at the University of Washington.

One Comment

  1. RT says:

    I like this poem, I like the rhyme. da,da, da, da, da, da, da, da. and so forth.

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What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney